


For Real This Time

by Mournful



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Seasons 3 Episode 3, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mournful/pseuds/Mournful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock prepares to perform the final steps of his latest plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Real This Time

Sherlock has a gun in his mouth and his thumb on the trigger. It’s a shotgun, because from his research he’s determined it’s the best tool for the job. 99.5% chance of success. On a scale from 1-100, shotgun to the head only ranks a 5 on the agony scale. It’s an older gun, hasn’t seen much use, but he’s checked the action and he’s confident it will fire. The shells he’s purchased are the perfect choice for the job. He’d considered pellets, but even buckshot might not have enough momentum to blow straight through his skull and take out the medulla oblongata. That of course is the most important bit. Otherwise there’s a 0.5% chance he’ll survive. He can’t imagine a worse hell than that. To attempt to shuffle off the mortal coil and find yourself stuck all the same, except now too incapacitated to finish the job properly. Trapped forever in this meat his mind inhabits.

  
      So as to be sure, he’s purchased slugs instead of shot. One large piece of lead to fly through the back of his mouth, through his brain stem, out the other side of his skull then on into the ceiling, perhaps even the attic. He doesn’t expect anyone to be there. Not that it would matter if this works. It only matters if he survives.

  
      The thought comforts him. Nothing matters so long as this works, and it will, because he’s done his research. He tastes the gun metal in his mouth. He’s beginning to salivate with his mouth mostly open. He doesn’t want to leave drool stains on the carpet, but he’s not quite ready.

  
     He thinks to himself that he could have planned these steps slightly better, but it’s a lie. For weeks now he’s been planning this. In that time he’s felt fear, even hesitation. But, he knows he’s one of those rare individuals who can defeat his own will to survive, one of the few with the strength to plan this and carry it out. He would chuckle, were it not for the shotgun barrel in his mouth. The great Sherlock Holmes, already singled out for his intelligence, found himself a member of a slightly less exclusive club. Those who could do it. Who, for even a moment, could overcome that deep seated will to live.

  
     Sherlock had always heard of those who committed suicide as “weak” or “cowardly.” It was the people who would say such things for whom Sherlock held the deepest contempt. Suicide, he would reason, takes strength. Cowardice, is continuing to live in a world that no longer holds anything for you. And now his world was empty.

  
     There had been lies, sincere lies, but Sherlock recognized them for what they were. His complete isolation had been inevitable. John was the only person who had made him feel… a connection, he supposed. Mary was clever enough, but they had a life now. At first he had been a part of it, but as children do, the baby had stolen his friends from him forever.

  
     He worried that John would blame himself after he was done being furious with Sherlock. He found it odd that such things worried him. He wouldn’t be here to suffer with John. He would feel no pain. He would feel nothing. He simply wouldn’t be. He liked that.

  
     He reached down with his other hand to grab his phone. He’d written a note, as people do, and prepared to send it to John. He’d written it in one go, and certainly didn't have time for edits now, but he thought it best to check it over at least once.

_Dear John,_

_What a stupid way to start a letter. Although I suppose it is at least somewhat appropriate considering that the “Dear John” style of letter is a holdover from the previous century when people wrote letters on paper like cavemen. Honestly! I’m sorry, I was distracted by idiocy. Getting back on point, this style of letter was often a way of saying, “I’m leaving you.” So I suppose this is an appropriate opening after all._

_Because I am leaving you. Leaving everyone, as it turns out, but specifically you. Not to say, only you, but rather to say, you’re the only one I’d miss, if missing someone when dead were possible. Perhaps it is. Doubt it._

_I’d tell you not to blame yourself, but I know that you will. Please feel free to be as furious with me as you like. I promise, I won’t mind._

_Please understand this has always been coming. It would have happened sooner had I not met you. But you have a different life now, you’re moving on, so it’s time I did as well._

_I want you to know that I am truly sorry for all the pain I caused you over those two years, and I hope you’ll be able to forgive me again. I imagine this will cause you yet more pain, and for that, I am sorry, at least, for as long as I’ll be able to feel sorry._  
  
 _I wish you were here. To listen to me talk out loud. But if you were, you’d try to stop me. And you might. This time. I am committed to this course of action and I am not afraid._

_I’ll be calling emergency services just after I hit send, so there shouldn’t be time for you to get here and see the mess I’m leaving. I’ll leave that honor to Lestrade. Perhaps he’ll bring Donovan. She’ll be so pleased._

_I am sorry John. I truly am. I didn’t understand friendship before I met you. I do now. Which is why I want to be clear. This is not a trick. I am taking my own life. I will not be returning. For real this time, John. No more miracles._

_Love,_  
 _SH_

      He finished reading. He hit send, switched to the keypad and dialed 999. He put the phone on the floor, made sure to angle the barrel correctly and forced his thumb to steady. This was going to take some concentration. He waited the few seconds it took before the other end of the line picked up.

      As soon as he heard a human voice, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.


End file.
